


Abandoned, But Not Forgotten

by Cdelphiki



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Whumptober 2020, some creep being a little creepy to Tim for like 2 lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26742706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cdelphiki/pseuds/Cdelphiki
Summary: Ever since Bruce came back from being lost in time, Tim has felt a little lost, himself. There's no real place for Tim in Bruce's life, now that he has Damian living at home with him. And Tim's all emancipated, and living in his own apartment and stuff. So when he and Bruce stop talking to each other outside Batman and Red Robin, Tim just... ignores it. Because thinking about things never ends well.But when Tim Drake gets kidnapped one day, he's forced to confront the issue. Did Bruce care enough to take a ransom demand for Tim? Was it bad that Tim wasn't sure?Whumptober, Day 1: Waking Up Restrained
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946596
Comments: 31
Kudos: 727





	Abandoned, But Not Forgotten

Waking up was a chore.

Tim wasn’t sure what had made him so groggy.

Sure, he’d maybe pulled an all-nighter… or three over the past week, but he’d been sure to at least throw in a couple naps along the way. So he wasn’t running off _no_ sleep. 

It felt like he was lost in the fog, desperately trying to find the road. It was there somewhere. Right in front of him, in fact. But he couldn’t even see his own hands, three feet in front of his face. How the hell was he supposed to find the road?

There was no reason waking up should be this hard.

And yet, there he was, trying to talk himself into opening his eyes.

There was a little light leaking in through the curtains to his right, he was pretty sure. Based on how that side of his eyelids were red, rather than black. Maybe if he rolled toward it, the sun would help wake him up more, so he could open his eyes.

That was the hope, at least. But when he tried to roll, nothing happened.

His body didn’t even budge? 

Was this sleep paralysis?

Tim had read about sleep paralysis before. Knew it involved feeling fully awake, but unable to do even the most simple task of opening ones eyes. 

Except… no. Didn’t it usually also involve some sort of sense of doom? Believing that there were aliens or demons or intruders or… or… Moms. Lurking somewhere nearby? About to attack. 

Or scold one for being asleep midday?

Tim felt blissfully at peace. So it probably wasn’t sleep paralysis. 

He just couldn’t move. 

Maybe it had to do with the weird position he was sleeping in. His hands were up above his head, brushing the headboard. 

Quite strange. His arms tingled, too, with the discomfort of sleep. Tim pulled at him arms, with the intent of pulling them down below his head so he could both relieve the pressure and help wake them up. Get rid of the tingles. But nothing happened.

And that’s when the fog finally cleared.

Tim could kick himself. If his hands and feet weren’t bound, that is…

Crud.

Tim’s eyes flew open, and it was not _his_ bedroom he was in. 

It was a small room, with cinderblock walls. And he was on a cut. The light was coming from a small window mostly hidden by grass outside. 

So a basement. 

Crap crap crapity crap.

This was _not_ good.

Take a breath, Drake, he reminded himself. He didn’t have room to panic. He needed to know the situation first.

His arms and legs were both bound, and tied to either end of the bed, he assumed. Although he couldn’t lift his head enough to tell. His left arm was _very_ asleep, which meant he’d been in that position for at least a little while.

Not good…

Asleep arm made it slightly easier to escape… but only because it meant he could more easily hurt himself doing it, and ignore his arm’s pleas for him not to force it free. 

Tim blinked hard, clearing the remaining fog from his eyes. How had he even ended up here? 

In his last memory he was… not in bed at home, that’s for sure. He couldn’t remember returning home yesterday… today? How much time had he even lost?

_Focus._

It had been mid morning, he knew. Right? Yes. 

He wasn’t actually sure. His memory was still so clouded. He clearly had been drugged, though, so he would cut himself _a little_ slack. 

Just a little.

_Drugged._

It was the creepy dude at the coffee shop! Tim had tasted the benzodiazepines a moment too late, after he’d taken a large sip. _Crap._

He should have never turned his back on his drink. All he had wanted to do was add some cinnamon to his coffee. He didn’t do that often, but he’d wanted to treat himself. It had been on the other counter, so he had to turn around to get it. 

_Stupid._

_Stupid stupid stupid._

Bruce was going to be so disappointed in this. If he ever found out.

But all that meant… he was currently Tim Drake.

Tim Wayne? Tim snorted. Drake. 

He hadn’t been to the manor in months. No one had so much as texted him in weeks. He was a Wayne only for convenience so he’d keep running the company, so Bruce didn’t have to bother. 

Otherwise it meant nothing. If only he’d realized a year ago, before all this crap started.

He wouldn’t still feel that stab in his chest, every time he thought about it. 

Which was every time he slowed down enough to think. 

Maybe if he just never slowed down, at least for a while, enough time would pass he’d forget all about it. 

He wasn’t upset over Dad anymore, after all. Not really. Not painfully. He’d get over Bruce, too.

 _Focus,_ Drake. 

He was Tim, but Tim could still free himself, right?

Maybe. He’d only recently ‘recovered’ enough to not need his leg braces all the time. So, in theory, he should have great upper body strength. 

So freeing his hands shouldn’t be so strange…

Tim pulled at his hands, testing the restraints that held him, but jumped when a chain clanked against the door to the room.

He stilled himself as a key was interested into a lock, and it clicked opened. 

The door squealed open and a man walked in. He was not the one who drugged him.

Great.

Probably mob related.

“You’re weren’t thinking about trying anything, were you?” the man said, from just inside the room’s threshold. 

Tim couldn’t help his snort. 

It wasn’t like he could talk with his mouth duct taped shut.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he continued, a sly grin on his face like he thought he was all that and a bag of chips, “We got ten men sitting outside. It won’t end well.”

Like Tim would just clumsily stumble outside, anyway. Tim rolled his eyes. 

Batman was probably on his…

…way.

Except. 

Did he even know Tim was missing?

Hopefully this was just a ransom thing. Because if it wasn’t, then Tim was all alone. But he didn’t know if they _knew_ who he was. He’d been a little out of the way, from his usual haunts. Specifically so no one would recognize him…

“Aww,” the man said, as he approached Tim’s bed. Tim resisted the urge to squirm under the man’s gaze. “You’re quite pretty when you’re terrified.” The man brushed his knuckles against Tim’s cheek, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

_Well shit._

He’d need to escape. _Soon._

“Ronald,” someone said from just outside the room. A woman, maybe. Her voice gruff, but still a little too light for a man. “Save that for if the rich bastard doesn’t want to play ball.” 

The man stroked Tim’s cheek again, then withdrew it, with a huffed out “Fine.” 

Tim had no warning before the duct tape was ripped off. 

It was a good thing he couldn’t grow a mustache yet. That would have _hurt_ otherwise. As it was. 

_Ow._

“Tim Wayne,” the man said, and Tim could sigh in relief. Ransom demand, for sure. Bruce would find out he’d been kidnapped. It didn’t matter whether Tim was part of the family, Batman would come rescue him.

Probably. 

Unless Bruce decided to use this as a test of his resourcefulness…

No. It wasn’t Robin taken. It was Tim. 

Bruce would come for him.

Most likely.

“I heard your daddy’s got quite a bit of money. What do you think he’d pay to get you back?” 

“I don’t know,” Tim rasped, realizing only then how dry his mouth was. What’d a guy have to do for a drink of water? Damn. 

But he didn’t know how much Bruce would pay, because Bruce would never have to pay. He was _Batman._

And also, Tim hadn’t been kidnapped as Tim since getting adopted. Which was pretty impressive, since he was sure Dick got kidnapped like, every other week, when he was a kid. 

“Shall we find out, then?” the thug asked, grinning as he pulled… Tim’s cell phone out of his pocket. “What’s your phone’s password?”

If it weren’t for the training Batman had given him, to keep his emotions in check, he would have barked out a laugh right then. 

They brought his phone _with them??_

Amateurs. 

Bruce would have his location in seconds. _Seconds._

_Idiots._

He rattled off the passcode that opened his phone as a normal, civilian phone, and watched as the guy stepped out of the room, phone held up to his ear. 

A drink of water would be _really_ nice, but he supposed everything would be all over soon enough. 

Probably.

It felt like an eternity, how long Tim lay there, listening to the thug standing right outside the room, phone held up to his ear. 

What was taking so long? Should he have started talking by now?

Ronald, and nope. Tim was not acknowledging the asshole had a name. So _thug_ it was, pulled the phone from his ear and jammed his thumb against the screen again, then listening carefully. 

“Which number is his cell phone,” Thug snapped, turning toward Tim after another moment. 

“The one that ends in 3299,” Tim said, furrowing his brow a little. Tim had the numbers clearly marked. House, Cell, Work, Work Cell. The thug should have been able to _read_ that. 

“Does he answer his phone?” Thug snapped, and Tim felt his heart plummet. 

_Yes._ He thought. Bruce _did_ answer his phone. Every time. All the time. 

Even when he was in the middle of a rare conversation with Tim. 

Even if it was just to answer a telemarketer. 

But he won’t answer a call from _Tim’s cellphone?_

Tim… Tim _never_ called. He was a texter. Bruce knew this. _Bruce_ wasn’t a texter, and yet he primarily texted with Tim. Because he knew Tim preferred it. 

Bruce _also_ knew if Tim _did_ call, it was because it was an emergency. 

So, if Bruce wasn’t answering… If he didn’t pick up, after three repeat calls. From Tim. 

Did that mean….

He was right. 

He… 

Bruce…

 _Didn’t_ care. 

Because Bruce had Damian now. Damian had stolen Dick. And Alfred. And Bruce had Jason back, sort of. 

What use was there for Tim? 

Tim thought he could… at least be like, on the periphery. Tim Drake. The kid Bruce trusted and worked with and let run his company. 

But… sure, maybe Bruce let him do all those things, but clearly he didn’t care, otherwise. Who was Tim Drake to him? The kid he adopted because he _had_ to? Because if he didn’t, he’d be shipped away and then Batman wouldn’t have a Robin? But now Batman _had_ a Robin. A Robin that wasn’t Tim. 

And…

_And…_

Fuck. He wasn’t going to cry over this shit while tied to a _bed_ while a kidnapper got more and more frustrated. 

“You could try Alfr—” Tim rasped, but was cut off by a huge crash outside the room. 

“Fuck,” Thug shouted, and then everything went to absolute hell as the basement erupted into gunfire. Tim tried to sink into the mattress best he could, but he was, quite literally, a sitting duck. 

Lying duck?

Tim closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable stray bullet to hit him.

The bullet never came, though.

Instead, what came was gloved hands grasping his wrists while something cold pressed against them. 

He opened his eyes just as _Batman_ cut his ties with a batarang.

“Batman?” he asked, dumbfounded. 

How the hell did Batman find him? Before the thugs even got into contact with them?

Had someone seen his abduction and reported it? And Bruce found out that way?

“Tim,” Batman said, gruffly, as he gently put a hand behind Tim’s back and helped him sit up, before turning his attention toward the bounds around his ankles. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” 

Batman turned his gaze back on Tim, and he just _knew_ he was getting the ‘tell me the truth’ glare he always got when he lied about cleaning his room, or whatever. 

“I’m _not,”_ he insisted, “my arm is asleep and I’m thirsty. That’s it.” 

“Hm,” Batman grunted, as he pulled the batarang through the last restraint around Tim’s leg. 

“How’d you even find me,” Tim asked, maybe a little petulantly. Not that he was _mad_ Bruce didn’t answer his stupid phone.

Although if he was already out as Batman, looking for him…. 

That was probably a good excuse for not answering his call. 

Tim expected Bruce to say something like, ‘Alfred saw on the news you’d been abducted,’ or ‘Gordon called, and—‘ 

But what Batman said, instead, was, “I put an independent tracking chip in your phone.”

“You did _what?”_ Tim demanded. 

His phone was _new._ He’d had it, like, three _weeks._

How in the _hell_ had Bruce got his hands on it long enough to do that? 

And _why???_

Tim didn’t block him from tracking it traditionally, not that Bruce ever _did._ Because, again. They didn’t talk. 

_Ever._

“It was helpful, was it not?” Batman said, offering his hand to help Tim to his feet.

“How often do you _stalk_ me?” he demanded, standing to his feet and swatting Batman’s hand away. He could _do it._ He wasn’t hurt!

Bruce’s lip twitched, and he said, “How do you think I knew you were missing to begin with?”

 _What. “_ You-You’ve been _keeping tabs on me??”_ Never in a million years would Tim have guessed _that._

Why would Bruce do that? They hadn’t spoken in _days._ And outside of Batman stuff?

Barely three sentences since Bruce came back!

Bruce _didn’t care._

Right?

He—

“Of course, Tim,” Batman said, quietly. He was pretty sure the thugs outside were unconscious, but Bruce was talking so quietly, now, there was no way they could hear, anyway, “You’re my son. I’m always going to worry about you.”

_What._

Tim. 

Tim’s brain was offline. 

_Error._ 404\. Logic not found.

 _None_ of this made sense.

“But. We haven’t even spoken in…”

“…months,” Bruce finished, almost a little solemnly, “I know.”

Wait. _Fuck him._ How could he be all _sad_ about it when he was the one that cut Tim out! Strung him along for _years._ Made him take Wayne. Gave him the company, then let him keep running it. 

Made him think maybe Tim really _was_ a son to him, just to toss him away the second a replacement came along. A _real_ son. Tim was no longer needed, so sayonara. 

“How can you say,” Tim started, a scowl settling on his face. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about it. 

He _wasn’t._

Fuck. 

“Just because you’re mad at me doesn’t mean I’m going to stop caring,” Bruce said, defensively. 

And.

Just.

_What._

_“_ I-I-I’m mad?” he asked, because. Again. _WHAT?_

What did he do to make Bruce think that?

Even with the cowl on, Tim could see Bruce’s face twist

“Aren’t you?”

Tim wasn’t sure where it came from. One second he was _pissed off,_ and the next?

He was bawling his eyes out. 

Like a little baby. 

Good thing the thugs were all unconscious, and it was just him and Bruce there, because _crap._

“ _No,”_ he cried, “Why- why would I be _mad?”_

He was _hurt,_ if he let himself admit that. _Hurt_ and _betrayed,_ and—and. 

Okay. He knew where the tears came from. 

But mad???

He’d never been _mad._ Not at any of them. 

Was this his fault?? Had he done something wrong?? To make them _think_ him mad? To make them push him away, because they thought that’s what he wanted?

 _That’s_ why Bruce wasn’t talking to him? Because Tim had messed up and made him think he was mad? Should he have reached out? Bruce seemed so aloof every time Tim tried. He had Damian, now. And Jason was coming around, again. Why did he need Tim?

“For abandoning you,” Bruce said, his cowl now completely off his face. When had he taken it off. _Why?_ They were literally still in the thug’s lair. 

“For leaving for months,” he continued, now crouched down so he was at Tim’s height, staring straight into his eyes, one hand on Tim’s shoulder, “after I promised I wouldn’t.”

That is what Bruce did, true, but _not until after_ he came back from the time stream. And apparently that had been Tim’s fault. 

But Tim knew Bruce meant _before._ When he disappeared and everyone thought he was dead and Tim was left all alone.

“That wasn’t your fault,” he said, sniffling. He scrubbed at his eyes with his palm, trying to stop. This was not the place to have a breakdown.

Alone in his apartment was the place to have a breakdown. 

“I should have prevented it.” 

“Bruce,” Tim said, his voice almost squeaking, “Stop. You couldn’t help it. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Then, why are you mad at me?” Bruce asked, and Tim couldn’t help it. His breakdown was going to happen right there. Right then. In a creepy basement of some creepy kidnappers. 

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he said, through a new bout of tears, “You have Damian. Jason’s back. Heck, even Dick is around, now. Why would you want me?” 

“Because,” Bruce said, wrapping his arms around Tim and pulling him close. Tim kind of hated himself for how quickly he melted right into the embrace. 

But… He just. He needed it _so bad._

“You’re Tim,” Bruce finished, as if that was a valid reason for _wanting_ him, “Who wouldn’t want you?” 

_Dick,_ Tim wanted to say. Dick. Damian. Jason. The Titans, probably. _His own parents._

Everyone seemed to push him away. Put up with him when he was around. Maybe even talk to him, act like they liked him. 

But as soon as he left, it was like _good riddance,_ and they all stopped talking to him. 

“Tim,” Bruce said, grasping Tim’s chin in his hand, forcing Tim to look, back at Bruce’s bare face, “Listen. I don’t know what’s going on with you, or what’s happened the past year to cause all this, but just remember that I love you, okay? Just as much as I love the others.”

 _That_ was not a statement he could deal with, in that moment. He— he’d pack it away. Save it. Remember it later. 

Because if he thought about it much right then, he probably wouldn’t stop crying for about fifteen hours. And he’d already cried enough in front of Bruce.

In the creepy basement.

Wiping at his eyes one last time, Tim forced out a laugh. “I can’t believe Batman just said those words. What about your emotionless reputation?” 

Bruce frowned, like he could read Tim’s every last thought, but did stand up straight again and pull his cowl on.

“Come on,” he said, opening the window in the room and pulling himself up and out, onto the ground above them, “Let’s go home, okay? We can talk more, there.” 

“I don’t want to talk,” Tim said, taking Bruce’s offered hand as he pulled himself up onto the ground, too. Through the window. 

“Well, you’re at least coming home so we can check you for injuries. But I really think we need to talk.” 

“Fine,” Tim said, as he followed Bruce around the block, to where the Batmobile was parked. 

He’d humor Bruce for now. 

Maybe, at the very least, he and Bruce _would_ start talking again. Acknowledging each other outside the cape and cowl. 

Then… then he’d go back to those words. Unpack them and think them over. Assess their truth. 

For now, though. For now Tim would go _home_ and let Bruce talk. 

He had missed Bruce. 

They rode in silence, for a good fifteen minutes, until Bruce finally looked over at Tim, sitting in the passenger seat, and said, “I’m glad you’re okay.” The _I don’t know what I’d do without you,_ gone unsaid, but there, regardless. 

“Thanks,” Tim said, because it was all he could manage. He was glad Bruce was okay, too. 

He had _really_ missed Bruce. _His dad._

Maybe… maybe they could be that again. 

“Thanks for stalking me,” Tim said, a little lamely after another minute passed, “even though it’s a total invasion of privacy.” 

The corner of Bruce’s lip lifted, and he said, “Of course, Tim. I’ll always be there for you.” 

And yeah. Maybe they _could_ be that again.

**Author's Note:**

> Ummm. Happy Whumptober. Back on Sep 1 I was like IM GOING TO WRITE TEN PROMPTS!!! Then outlined like 5. Then last week I was like IM GOING TO FINISH THESE FIVE PROMPTS. Then I wrote 7k words in two longfic projects. Only one of which I'm actually currently publishing.....someonehelpmeihaveaproblem.
> 
> Now it's 30 minutes to oct 1 and this is the only one I have done. 😬 I mean technically, this could also fill Day 2, kidnapping, and day 8, abandoned, but I had ideas for both of those.... No promises how many prompts I get done, but I'm gonna try to do at least a couple more. There are a couple I'm really excited about. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! And clicking in even though that summary is a giant mess. 😂


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